by Karen Miller
“More than a squadron’s worth. I know.” He shook his head. “They’ve found some way to upgrade the droid starfighters. These vultures and scarabs were faster, smarter—and it didn’t help that we were fighting them gagged. If this was a test run for his computer virus and his jamming equipment, Grievous got the results he was after.”
“And if he and Dooku equip all of their warships with the same jamming technology—if they’ve managed to infiltrate more than one shipyard, infect other ships with that virus—” Obi-Wan sounded shaken. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“Except that’s our job, isn’t it?” Anakin said. “Thinking the unthinkable.”
He looked around the loading dock at the scattered flotsam and jetsam of battle. At the splashes of dried blood on the ground, the discarded blaster clips, the violently dismembered battle droids. Remembered the slaughtered Kothlis citizens he’d seen from his fighter cockpit as he’d flown to the spynet facility, his senses yammering with alarm. There’d been scores of bodies lying in the streets, crumpled in the forecourts of their offices and apartment complexes, and the dead or injured clone soldiers, their armor white and red and shining in the sun.
He glanced at Obi-Wan. “You know… some days I don’t much like our job.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” said Obi-Wan, rubbing the wound on his chest. “Master Yoda and the Chancellor must be apprised of this development as soon as possible, but only via a secure shortburst. Grievous may have fled the scene of his crimes, but we don’t know what other tricks he’s got up his sleeve. We can’t risk—”
“General Kenobi. Do you copy?”
It was Yularen, sounding relieved. Obi-Wan tapped his comlink. “Kenobi here.”
“The Senate disaster relief team has arrived.”
“That was fast.”
“They were in the neighborhood. Major flooding on Rishi. They—hold on—” There was some background chatter, then: “The Bothan delegation’s here, too, General. They’re on their way to your location now.”
“That’s excellent news, Admiral. I’ll be here waiting for them. Kenobi out.”
Anakin shook his head. “Ah—no, you won’t.”
“I won’t?” Obi-Wan’s eyebrows shot up. “Anakin, I don’t recall needing your permission to—”
“Save your breath,” Anakin said flatly. “I’m not arguing this with you. Medic!”
The clone who’d patched up Obi-Wan looked around from packing his medkit. “General Skywalker?”
“When’s the next medevac due?”
“In a couple of minutes, sir. But it’s not coming here, it’s—”
“It is now. Arrange that, would you? Then see General Kenobi safe on board—and if it’s not heading back to Indomitable, tell them to make a detour.”
The medic nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Anakin—”
Exasperated, Anakin glared at his mentor. “Obi-Wan, you don’t need to brief the disaster team and the Bothans. I can do that. And get a proper sitrep and sort out our troops while I’m at it.”
“Well, yes, that’s true, but—”
“But nothing,” he snapped, not the least bit interested in good manners. Sometimes Obi-Wan needed a short, sharp shock. Not your Padawan anymore, remember? “You said it yourself—Chancellor Palpatine has to know what’s going on. That’s our top priority. And in case you hadn’t noticed? You’re bleeding again. You belong in a medbay. Now, I’ve given this soldier a direct order. Don’t make him disobey it by being difficult and don’t upset the chain of command by countermanding me.”
Silence. Obi-Wan stared at him.
“Okay.” Anakin patted his mentor on his undamaged shoulder. “Now I’m going to move my fighter, because it’s probably in the way. I will see you upstairs when I’m finished down here. And I promise—in the unlikely event I run into trouble I can’t handle, I’ll contact you.”
With a cheerful nod at his mute former Master, carefully not looking at the medics, he sauntered out of the loading dock, heading for his fighter. As he walked, he toggled his comlink. “This is Gold Leader. Check in, people. Tell me what’s going on.”
One by one, his surviving pilots replied. Good news all around. No more casualties, lots more kills, the last of Grievous’s garbage disposed of. Kothlis was free at last.
“Good job. Head on home,” he told them. “I’ve got a couple of things to do here but I’ll be right behind you. And the drinks are on me.”
As he hoisted himself into his cockpit, R2-D2 beeped and whistled a relieved welcome and a question. Coming in low overhead, the diverted medevac transport stirred the street’s dirt and debris. He hit the cockpit canopy switch, fast.
“Obi-Wan’s fine, more or less,” he told the anxious droid, firing their fighter’s thrusters. “Ahsoka’s pretty banged up, though. So are Rex and Coric. They’re on their way to Kaliida Shoals.”
R2’s mournful whistle said everything Anakin couldn’t… or didn’t want to.
“Yeah. I know,” he said. “But they’re in excellent hands. They’ll be fine. Good as new in no time.”
And who exactly was he trying to convince? The droid or himself?
Yes.
“Okay, Artoo. Hang on!”
And he gunned the fighter in a vertical liftoff, pointed its nose toward a nearby deserted speeder parking lot, and did his best to outrun inconvenient reality… for a few moments, anyway.
To his surprise, Obi-Wan found Admiral Wullf Yularen waiting for him when he disembarked from the medical transport in Indomitable’s busy main hangar.
“Welcome back, General,” the admiral greeted him, as around them deckhands and medics got down to business. “Nice to see you still in one piece, more or less.”
“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said warily. Since when did admirals loiter about in hangar bays? “I’m fine.” Unless… Anakin. “If you were led to believe otherwise, Admiral, my apologies.”
Yularen’s sober gaze followed an antigrav gurney laden with a bloodied, half-unconscious clone—hurt, but not hurt enough to ship all the way to Kaliida Shoals. Only the worst cases, the touch-and-go cases that needed Kaminoan specialists, were sent there. “I wasn’t. Precisely.”
No? Obi-Wan found that hard to believe. “But?”
Yularen hesitated, then nodded. “But after bringing me up to speed on the Kothlis ground situation, General Skywalker did mention in passing that you might get—ah—sidetracked, on your way to the medbay.”
Oh, really? I’ll sidetrack him the next time I see him. “I see.”
“I must say,” said Yularen, unbending a trifle, giving him a once-over glance, “you don’t appear to be knocking on death’s door.”
“I’m not,” he said tightly. “I’m afraid Anakin is—” With an effort he stopped himself. Whatever irritation he might be feeling with his high-handed former Padawan, it wasn’t appropriate to vent it at the admiral.
Yularen was looking at him closely, an odd and unexpected sympathy in his deep-set eyes. “He’s upset about his lost pilots,” the admiral observed. Only a fool forgot he was a smart, perceptive man. “And about our ground troop casualties—as am I. This was an expensive outing, General Kenobi.”
Weariness rolled over Obi-Wan in a great wave, flattening his vision and dulling his ears. Underneath it, the pain he’d managed so far to repress flared a warning. “I know.” He looked around the hangar, vaguely taking in the bustling deck crew as it unloaded technical supplies from a small transport vessel bearing Coryx Moth insignia. “How badly were you hit by Grievous and his warships?”
Yularen shrugged. “We’ll be in spacedock for a couple of weeks. Perhaps longer. In fact—”
He started walking toward the hangar deck transport. Falling into step beside him, Obi-Wan waited for him to finish, keenly aware of his colleague’s strictly controlled dismay.
“I was wondering, General—how would you feel about transferring to Pioneer for your return trip to Coruscant?” Yularen as
ked. “I’d rather not stress this lady with more hyperspace jumps than I absolutely need.”
The admission shocked Obi-Wan. “Indomitable’s damage is that bad?”
“It’s that bad,” Yularen agreed grimly. “You wouldn’t have seen it on your approach—most of it’s portside. We’ll be keeping a lot of hands busy, I’m afraid.”
And if they didn’t already have the repair downtime to worry about, now they had to fear Separatist insurgents on the repair crews, sowing more havoc under the guise of care.
Not a day passes without this war growing more difficult. More treacherous.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d become disheartened.
“Of course, Admiral. Whatever I can do to assist you. If I might ask… how many people did you lose in this engagement?”
They’d reached the transport. Its doors hissed open, and Yularen let himself be waved in first. “Nine. And three times as many wounded.”
“I’m so sorry,” Obi-Wan said, stepping in after him. “What about the other cruisers?”
“Eleven dead on Coruscant Sky. Their wounded are still being tallied. Pioneer got off the lightest this time. Four lost, a dozen wounded.” As the transport doors hissed shut again, Yularen hit the control toggle. “Medbay, then bridge.”
Obi-Wan crushed the rising grief. “Actually, I should code my report to the Council before I—”
“Medbay, then bridge,” Yularen repeated, frowning. “I didn’t just speak to General Skywalker. I double-checked with the medic who treated you. Have you stopped yet to consider how much explosive force it takes to shatter transparisteel and puncture clone armor? No? I didn’t think so. Therefore do please humor me, General. Ten minutes here or there won’t make a difference to the Council.”
Nonplussed, Obi-Wan stared at him. “Admiral—your concern is appreciated, but frankly, I believe it’s misplaced. I’m not quite sure why you and Anakin feel the need to—”
“Not quite sure?” said Yularen, incredulous, as they headed toward the warship’s medbay. “Since I know you’re not a fool, sir, are you by any chance concussed?”
Temper was starting to burn away Obi-Wan’s leaden exhaustion. “No, I am not concussed. Admiral Yularen—”
“General Kenobi.” With a slap of his hand Yularen halted the transport. “While as a rule I find your modesty refreshing, in this instance I’m inclined to feel peeved. You, Master Jedi, are a valuable asset. Your skills are irreplaceable, your contributions to the Republic’s war effort immeasurable. You do not have the right to treat your person lightly. What you have, sir, is an obligation to guard your health and well-being as though it were the health and well-being of our precious Republic’s Supreme Chancellor. And if you so cavalierly refuse to do that, then you can hardly be astonished when those of us who aren’t blind to your value make whatever arrangements we deem necessary to keep you in one piece.” Yularen’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows shot up. “Need I continue, or have I made my point?”
Obi-Wan dropped his shocked gaze to the floor. Not once in the months they’d been loosely working together had this highly respected officer raised his voice to him, or even come close to raking him over the coals as though he were an errant subordinate. Nobody spoke to him like that. Not since Qui-Gon. Well, except for Yoda. And Yoda—like Qui-Gon—had earned the right.
Except… perhaps Wullf Yularen has earned the right, too. Today—like so many days—he threw his ship, his life, and every life he’s sworn to protect between me and death. I suppose it’s only natural he feels something of a vested interest in my survival.
“Admiral…” He looked up. “My apologies. Your point is made.”
Breathing out a harshly relieved sigh, Yularen restarted the transport. “You know, General, some say young Skywalker’s the crazy one, the reckless one, the Jedi most likely to go down in a blaze of glory. I used to say it—but now I’m not so sure. In your own quiet way you can be just as terrifying.”
“I’m sorry—I don’t know what to say to that.”
A faint smile curved Yularen’s lips. “You don’t see it, do you?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Obi-Wan replied. “You seem to be suggesting that I take unnecessary risks. I can’t agree. I only ever do what I feel is right.”
“And rarely stop to think of the personal consequences,” said Yularen, still wryly amused. “You and Skywalker are cut from the same cloth. And that little Padawan of his—she’s been fashioned out of the discarded material!”
Ahsoka. Though he was worried about her, Obi-Wan had to smile. “She’s certainly feisty. Master Yoda knew exactly what he was doing when he paired those two.”
The transport was slowing. As it bumped to a stop, its electronic voice chirping “Medbay,” Yularen nodded. “Just as you knew what you were about, training him.”
It was a compliment, and as unexpected as the man’s earlier sympathy had been. I think Yularen is more rattled by this recent engagement than he cares to admit, even to himself. As the transport doors slid open, Obi-Wan smiled, acknowledging the comment.
“I’ll join you on the bridge as soon as I can, Admiral,” he said. “Perhaps in the meantime you could ask Lieutenant Avrey to set up for a Priority Alpha shortburst to the Jedi Temple. That is, if our current comm capacity permits.”
“It does,” said Yularen, professionally impersonal once more. “I’ll get Avrey on it immediately.”
In Indomitable’s impressive medbay anteroom, Obi-Wan breathed in the antiseptic air and felt—and banished—the pain of its occupants, hidden inside the facility’s treatment cubicles. A 2-1B med droid stood behind the anteroom’s desk. Registering his presence it looked up, its visual sensors electronically gleaming.
“General Kenobi. We’ve been expecting you,” it said politely, moving to join him. “Please come this way. I understand you’ve suffered a number of penetrating wounds, facial lacerations, a blaster burn, and injury to one of your flexor tendons.”
I am far too busy for this. “Yes, but I assure you my situation sounds worse than it is,” he said, stepping back. “In fact—”
“Please, General, there’s no need for concern,” the med droid continued, herding him toward the treatment area. “I was recently upgraded courtesy of the Rhinnal State Medical Academy. I assure you, you’re in excellent hands.”
Clearly there was no escape. Ungraciously surrendering to his fate, Obi-Wan followed the droid into the serious part of the medbay.
Anakin, there will be a reckoning for this.
Chapter Five
Like Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, Bail Organa preferred to work with living breathing sentient individuals, not droids. The thought of being surrounded by a staff of protocol droids was enough to induce a migraine. How Padmé tolerated that prissy, overbearing collection of wiring and circuits was beyond him. He’d have trashed the fussy thing for spare parts the second time it metaphorically opened its mouth to lecture him on the correct pronunciation of the Adikarian Greetings Between Equals, or whatever.
His own very human, very efficient personal assistant tapped on his open office door. “Senator—you wanted to know when Pioneer was due in?”
He hit the pause button on his slowly scrolling datapad and looked up. “She’s home?”
“Not quite,” Minala said. As usual, even though they were at the tail end of a long day, she looked immaculate. No matter what kind of crisis blew up, Minala Lodilyn managed to remain cool, calm, and effortlessly composed. The word flustered didn’t seem to be in her dictionary. “The ship’s on approach, heading for the GAR docks.”
“All right. Thanks. Can you—”
Minala grinned. “Already done. You’ll find your speeder on Level Two, Bay Four-forty-five-Cee.”
“Lady, you are a treasure and twice a treasure,” he said, standing. “I’ve tagged Fli’teri and Jinmin Tokati for the Kothlis inquiries. If either calls back, let them know I’ll be in touch later tonight.”
She nodded. “Certainly, sir
.”
“Also, I’ve sent through those last five Tarik’s Law amendments to your console, plus the latest stats for the Appropriations Committee and the draft Executive Data-Dumping Bill. I’m sorry they’re so last-minute but I only got them an hour ago. If you could—”
Minala raised a soothing hand. “Don’t worry, Senator. I’ll see they’re proofed and disseminated as and where needed.”
Her unquestioning dedication flooded him with sudden guilt. “It’ll mean a late finish.”
And that prompted her elusive, zany grin. “Surprise, surprise.”
“Come in late tomorrow to make up for it,” he said, reaching for his workcase. He dropped it onto the desk and snapped open the lid. “I mean it.”
“Can’t,” she said, with a decisive shake of her head. “Now that your meeting with the Chancellor’s been rescheduled for the crack of dawn, I’ll need to keep an eye on things here.”
Grimacing, he powered off the datapad. “All right. But you’ll go home early. No arguments.”
“We’ll see,” she said, so very prim and proper.
Sweeping the datapad, his pile of notes and a few other bits and pieces into the workcase, he gave her an amused look. “Have you forgotten we’re coming up on performance review season? If memory serves there’s something about ‘suitably deferential demeanor’ in the questionnaire.”
She was still straight-faced, but her eyes were amused. “Yes, sir. Will that be all, Senator Organa?”
“If anything urgent comes in after I’ve gone, flick it to my home console,” he said, and clicked his workcase shut. “Oh—and aside from the Executive Office I’d rather not take any official calls unless somebody’s sky is falling down. And even then, see if they’ve got a sturdy umbrella.”
“Will do, Senator.” Minala stepped back so he could get through the doorway. “Have a good evening. And you should try for an early—earlyish—night, too.”
“Hah,” he said, heading for the discreet exit in her outer office. “Chance would be a fine thing.”
As promised, his speeder was waiting for him at the Level 2 Senatorial parking station. Leaving the shields down to let in the balmy weather, Bail eased into the southwest traffic flow that would take him out to the sprawling GAR docks and barracks complex. It was an industrial sector of the city that had been reclaimed with an executive eminent domain decree a few weeks into the war. The move hadn’t been welcomed, but Palpatine had managed to smooth the affected company directors’ ruffled plumage by promising that the inconvenience would be temporary, a matter of months at most. They weren’t to worry: the Jedi would soon have the Separatists suing for peace.